


I'm Yours

by Kylaroid



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Masturbation, brief mentions of violence, season 2 finale spoilers, the finale killed me and i need more content to make myself feel better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 06:12:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18959491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kylaroid/pseuds/Kylaroid
Summary: Taking place after the season two finale, Eve reflects on her relationship with Villanelle and the blurring lines between love and hate, and violence and desire."Does Villanelle think she’s dead? What should she think if she saw her now? Would she laugh at her, telling that she really did want this? Would she shoot her again and finish the job this time?"





	I'm Yours

There’s a fan slowly circulating on the ceiling above her, uselessly pushing around the humid summer air. Eve is on her back, staring at those fan blades, trying futilely to sleep. Every time she tries to get comfortable, the shitty springs in the mattress dig into her shoulders. It makes her long for her old bed with its familiar crevice formed from Niko’s now absent form. Eve turns onto her side, causing the bed to groan in response. She just can’t seem to get any rest. Her thoughts flip between Bill bleeding out in the club, and Villanelle clutching her stomach with seemingly endless amounts of blood spilling between her fingers. Next comes Hugo, pathetically calling out for her, his voice strained and desperate as she walks away. She doesn't even know if he made it. Her stomach twists a little. No, likely not. Then there’s Raymond, dear god, his twisted, bloody neck and face – chunks of him spewed out across the hotel floor. Sometimes she thinks about these memories and spends an hour by the edge of the toilet. Other times, she feels herself pulled into the thoughts and reveling in them. The warm wetness of the blood, the power, the curiosity. Those moments are rare but seem to come more and more often. She thinks of Villanelle, obsessed, and terrifying. Claiming her, loving her, shooting her. Thinks about Villanelle’s voice ricocheting right in her ears like a bullet. Husky and low and slick with arousal. Remembers Villanelle pinning her against the counter, against the fridge, pressing cold steel to her skin and holding her tantalizingly close. Every memory blurs together in a sea of fear and sick arousal. Infuriatingly, every instance of Villanelle is engulfed with hatred and morbid desire.  
Eve’s brows furrow together, and she rolls over – pulling the sheets with her. No matter how hard she tries, she can’t banish Villanelle from her mind. The little prick still keeps her up at night. She’s mad, she’s _pissed_ , rightly so. She wants to kill Villanelle for shooting her, for making her kill someone, for manipulating her, for making her think she felt something for Villanelle. She wants her to get it, that she’s not her pawn. Not her plaything to mess with and then discard when it’s no longer fun. When it’s become boring to her. 

She wants to make Villanelle need her like oxygen, to understand what it means to really love someone and need them. Villanelle appears in her mind’s eye, face twisting as she proclaims that Eve is hers, like some kind of toy. She’s tall and imposing and unhinged and _beautiful_ , and it pisses Eve off. Makes her hand shoot into the waistband of her pants. Her fingers roll past a growing bush of curled dark hair, she hasn’t shaved in a while. Another thing she can blame on Villanelle, little asshole. Two of her fingers press up against her clit, rubbing it deeply. A stilted moan slithers out from between her teeth. 

Eve thinks about Villanelle again, imagines herself between Villanelle’s bare legs. Fingers exploring her insides, twisting them in teasing ways. Curling them and making Villanelle curl off the bed. Thinks about all the little things Villanelle would mutter and cry when Eve fucks her. 

“I’m yours, I’m yours—” Yes, that’s what Eve would want to hear. She wants Villanelle to relinquish control to her. She’s no toy, she’s her equal. A person. As Eve strokes herself, her other hand wanders to her side. The wound from the gunshot has mostly healed now. She wonders if Villanelle’s scar looks similar. Wonders if Villanelle touches hers too while thinking about her. Her fingers brush up against the wound, admiring the texture of the scar tissue. There’s no way Villanelle could ever forget about her, and Eve could never do the same either. The two of them are bound now, and these scars serve as evidence of their fucked up connection. 

Eve’s hand trails up from her scar to her breast. Cups it, with two fingers brushing over her nipple – causing it to harden slightly. She works her tit while her other finger is still running circles around her throbbing clit. “Mmmm—” A stifled moan. Eve thinks about fucking Villanelle in the worst way. Making sure that she’ll never feel that good without her. Fantasizes about riding her. Relishes the image of Villanelle’s face between her thighs. She wonders if Villanelle’s face would start to turn blue like it did in Raymond’s grasp. Eve would be generous and give her moments to breathe while reveling in the sensation of Villanelle’s mouth and tongue buried in her folds. Those cold Russian winter eyes softening underneath her and Villanelle’s fingers carving marks into her thighs that she could admire later. “Vill.” Her lips betray her. Eve’s hand unglues itself from her breast to join the other hand in her pants. Two fingers slip through the folds, greeted by slick wetness. She plunges two fingers in, scissoring them around inside. Does Villanelle think she’s dead? What should she think if she saw her now? Would she laugh at her, telling that she really did want this? Would she shoot her again and finish the job this time? No, Eve decides, if she wanted her dead she would be dead now. Her fingers curl up and rub against her g-spot, causing her toes to splay out. Keeping her alive was another one of Villanelle’s strategies in this fucked up game. Eve’s fingers soothingly rub her clit while two others twist around inside herself. In her fantasy, she’s coming on top of Villanelle. The Russian assassin’s face is slick with her wetness, and her lips are trembling. “Please take me, Eve, I need you—” Eve comes at this false idol, her body twitching and spasming as her system floods with pleasure. And then the pleasure fades, and all Eve is left with is the ceiling fan, the shitty box mattress, and blood-soaked memories.


End file.
